PARAGNAYER KOTHA

Neeru sits here, now and then. Thoughts aloft. If women coming to the ghat giggle and whisper about her tainted sari, her burly legs, loose bun and dazed look, she would continue with her business; to sit cross- legged and ponder. In her soundest of sleeps, when the owl hoots and wit scampers up in her pouting chest, she knows they are women. Just Women. Days of pukur- par lust continues unless she realizes, Nemesis that she had read of in books smuggled out of kaku’s trunk, doesn’t have a scheme of hauling up her family and their familiar indifference. Care was no more needed in her life as the past thirteen years had made its’ absence a wicked habit. She had questions, so many of them, forgetting where they headed to. She had needs satisfactorily fulfilled, brutally dismissed. How much she longed to grab Ma by the waist, press her face against her belly and tell her of poems she could weave. That she could rhyme 'ishkabon' with 'nirjaton', that she had dipped her foot into the lake water and a fish tried nibbling it, her empty stomach twitched in joy. How much she longed for Ma to make her feel special. Her elder sister Shyamoli and little brother, who though ten was posed of three by people, made the sibling bond. Neeru was never missed in their late night plans of deciding on secluded places for playing lukochuri. She was assured that Didi and Butu were the entwined banyan roots. She wasn’t full of anguish. Too full for it. Too full for words. Even if she had a functional tongue, she wondered, would she want to speak! Complaining a luxury hence. Palm trees gossip, the water reels, Neeru wonders.

"KAJARI KE, ONNO KI SE MEYE"

KAJARI KE,

AMI TUMI NAKI ONNO KEU;

ONNO KONO MEYE.

LIKHECHHI KABYA TAR NAAM E,

ASHCHHI TAI HETE ONEK KROSH,

DEBO TAKE AAMAR MAAN ER CHHUTO,

DEKHTE TAKE NEI TO KONO DOSH.

KAJARI KE,

SHUSHKO KONTHE BHEJA KICHHU KOTHA,

SE KI SWARGA RATHER TOLE MEGHER SEI DHEU;

KAJARI AMI, TUMI NAKI ONNO KEU!

EI LEKHONI TE JONMO NOY TAR,

EI LEKHONI ROMANCHITO JONNO TAHAR.

BOHUBAR BOLECHE SOKOLE,

DURLOBH KE LOBHINU,

KOBIDER SAJE-

SADHARON LAGI ACHE

THUNKO BASHONA:

BRITHA KENO JAGASH PORIHAASH.

AMI SADHARON, SADHARON KE DEKHI, DAKI,

OLPO OLPO BUJHI.

SE JE AAMAR SATHE HAATE, HETECHHILO SEI EKBAR;

ONNO BOLE MONE HOLO NA TO TAKE. JED CHEPECHHE

ONTOR AMI MITIYE DEBO AJI,

ESHECHHI TAI SONGI-TAR E KHOJE;

JIGESH KORE JANAO AMAY AAGE, SE KI MORE NIMNO BOLE BOJHE?

KHALI HAATE KOI, KABYA ACHE JE,

“KAJARI KE, ONNO KI SE MEYE”.

AAMAR DINGI JHORER BEGE KAAPE,

CHHOTO BORO, BHOY PEYECHHE FER.

AAMAR MOTO TAR O OI THAKUR.

BHOY, HAY OI, BHITO MANABDOLER,

KHUBDDHO BISWAS, KHUDRO ASWASH.

ICHHE FURIYE GELO AAMAR, HOTHATH

KAJARI AAMAR, AAMAR MOTO HOYE THAK.

PROSHNO KORO TOMRA JODI KEU, ‘KAJARI KE?’

BOLBO, SE AAMAR ONNO KEU.

Blut and Ehre

What I call Geometric Remorse: It started from an early age of seven, (as faintly as my memory can chase back frivolity), branched unprohibited, and now rules unsatisfied forever. I hardly ride a bicycle nowadays but my foot in those spokes makes me moan in sleep often. I wish the night was a bit longer. I could have pulled out my foot atleast. Blut and Ehre.

Deep Sigh

“A man’s character is his fate.”- Heraclitus.

Dearest,

I seek my character in my fate. Disillusioned tranquillity is by and large in on my mind. Is it there in yours eh? My character is the neon mist. It rises to that end of the ellipse where ‘chaos’ welcomes doubt to strangulate it to Sin: OUR Genteel Religiosity. I can see you trod. I am blinded to see your way and I regret sight; so as to say my covetous gusto; AGAIN.

Will Delilah cheat?

Will Samson plead?

Or a tussle between conceit and deceit orchestrating disdain, not Defeat! My paw scratches the plaster and I yield to ribald.

What if gloom ceases me,

What if it does not,

The linchpin had fallen off miles behind-

and I have my way lost!

GodhuliLagane

A wistful glance into the opal sky,

There million birds pass me by,

Indistinct instincts stir up the chalice of spiritual frenzy,

Mumbling in sinister belief or disbelief?

Pardon doubt,

Pardon Infidelity,

Punish regret or its' pretence

and that I dread.

Hope recoils, uppish nicety,

in greed lurching onto the spills of a dream

Dreamt in the white night of Troy,

in beaming Machu Pichu turrets,

To fasten an end of the crescent

Pull the other strongly,

and rebel against few puissant bars.

Regime of the dot nearing its plot.

Winsome mistral heals.

I not, Cannot be sent back sky

I would fly,

I Will Fly.

Jahanara and Sheikh Janali.

A kid of five is fascinated by simple things that are routine to our eyes.

Fancying the Simple. My mind ponders, to the prospect of this being a theory on evolved poetry.

Could bring it on later.Being concerned about the child and its thoughts, I pick up its' muses, randomly

acknowledged, and randomly chucked. Paper planes and not origami, the table as a seat and not

the chair, the broom and not its snooty onlookers, a strand of hair disturbing mum's cheek muscles and not a prim lock.

We are pernicious in implicating them. That is what we do in our efforts to look simple or remain simple. An Effort ugh!

Simplified resounds glorified. 'Implying' devises the lopsided comic sense.

Childhood, of elements I am and am not, is my porch to salvation hence.Sheikh Janali mastered it to a halt, and then through the thin pair of lips on his wrinkled face,

he said;

-" babu chapben?".

Baba as Babu sounded odd. I have known the man as Baba though he never physically seemed to resemble my sketches of a close man. Strange contemplation again.

Baba grabbed me by my arms, without considering a chance of my democratic opinion to have swelled up; I was lifted up in the air and with a soft bang my bums

bumped onto his soft flesh. The dozing horse, unexpectedly loaded, didn't retort. I moved left and right, longing to cling against that striped shirt,

to recline in that armchair. May be slides of wooden 'tok bok tok bok' horses had flooded the existence of an inanimate horse. I kept whining until brought down in a wink.

There was a short dialogue, between the sahis and his Babu. I keenly watched its' brown coat, its' tail dyed in shades of black and cocoa, and the depressingly soft saddle stitched from old

'razais'. Some money was handed over and he went away into the crowd with Jahanara shooing bees off with his tail drowsily.

I see his imploring smile. It is no narcotic drool I conjure up on, but recollecting memories of a trip to Rather Mela which no more coins my 'idea of fun'.

O Jahanara, O Jahanara,.........Fancying the Simple.

home calling

August Autumn,

As I return to this lightless house every evening, I miss a slight shiver, A fretful gait and that reconciliation

between the unwavering trail of festivity and a hapless sense of serenity.Always resonant. Way back in time, fleecy clouds

would sink in my mnemonic struggle. Struggle for......enjoying it now and never had earlier. Ordinary am I? - not to flout such obtuse whims?

I exactly remember instances that made me go numb down my legs, and a second later, I perused my person with that mellow prick.

All hazy.

The struggle isn't against Nostalgia. Urge modelled into shape impromptu.

There were rains

Night, Mirror, a talk.

There were rains.

I play with a dead flame

Of Wrath, Pleasure, Mercy.

Of Trepidations,

n miles f ennui.

I caress not.

Tease n twist it to wrought thugs to empathy.

Widening populace, its' pomposity,

n shrinking penitence.

My pin hole vista shares secrets.

There are rains.

Oppose such formalism

where "just" triggers titters.

I oggle at the diminuendo, its vivacity.

I oggle at those bellowing streets;

the lustrous eyes

blinking under dripping polythene;

denying pity, pitying the holocaust in which we revel-

rancid aristocrats.

Bounteous in romance,

glorified in their own right.

Categorically, here crops my revenge.

Red hot charcoal of a dead flame.

Hang your jaws over the conundrum.

There were rains....but not me.

this day not freedom but License.

I was a kid to look out of the window but not one to feel it open. Dark. The neon- lamp lit, flat roofs seem cautious. Eager for another busy start; on tiptoes for old, vile business. A fern skirts my compound wall. The leathery green fern. It's a money plant in origin, I have known all these days: but how "organically" fern strikes me at this moment. And, why abandon such license?!

The intention was of exemplifying some objective but I drop the idea like I rarely refrain from not being beatific or from being a pugnacious social outcast. I lavish and sulk on the ecstatic paradox; while I cower and cry, these tiny leaves run in murderous frenzy spying my late meet with them. " It's better late than never". Goodnight my faithful pillow.

ALLEGORY. me. ALLEGORY.

Dells akin to your kind,

A distant fetish on the shores behind.

Lids that close o'er ninny clay walls,

And hate to part at its naive gross faults,

Dare.

Dare to dive into the sin

of begetting one's long lost grin.

You, I deride my nasty Man.

You call upon that occult plan;

to please the Devil I pray in dreams.

"The Devil of Heaven", as to me he seems!

Grace my mettle,

Arouse my zest,

or crush it down with a quick, crisp crest?

'd you not taught to light the lure

For flickers and flamed coutures,

Blut would conspire with ehre and dine,

On what I hold back to pine!

Feet in langour,

A mourning heart;

I know not to upset the apple- cart.

Never 'll I ken the cult

of innate Self- insult.

As

Nasty shields me in Divine

Nasty is the elysian wine.

Fall back on pages pale,

Good being Bad, is the only tale.

A look of the eye, A look of its' mind,

and the gig- lamps are of just my kind.

Words flow and wither in the wild,

The Act being violently mild-

Why do I be a pricking daft?

To scribble lines jus' to impart

What we blabber dusk to day,

Isn't symposium in utter sway;

But

the denial of being chastised,

To Bliss am I truly baptised?!

Pandemonium

I am thinking of what to think.

The indomitable moans nag to break free.

The door is locked.

Fastened without need.

The Key is with me;

Lost deliberately.

I desire a knock, not strange.

Obscure and abstract.

I am thinking of what to think.

Fallow mettle depresses sincerely.

Exacting hues steal away-

curl up into a soggy, unsure mass near my epiglottis.

Hard Metal's now an easy wager to my vocal chords.

The compass doesn't come to its' scheduled stop;

Staggers like my first ' A, B, C'.

And leaves me expecting fulfilment.

I am thinking of what to think...

surely nothing as impish as what I say.

I don't rhyme anymore.

It parted ways too.

The Lullaby tunes out.

THE DREAM is over. It was snapped. No, it wasn't a nightmare, I am assured. Could be an illusion or a denotation of the same but 'nice'. Inexplicably Nice. Ephemeral nuances is the Lord of all moods. You aspire for them, take justifiably good care of them because; they are around to tune in to your aimless tick-tack-toe for sometime and after those rare 'kind of happy' moments you are the same somebody. Enrique's somebody. Yes that somebody's me. However mighty I might be, when it aches, I cry.

I am loud.

Oh! the bitter tears......cut deep into my soul, wawling- a jerk in the funny bone- the rising mist- ah! there am I up on the podium:

addicted to a few kicked off pebbles, addicted to the thatched black and white frame, addicted to my old drooping shoulders.

Not by choice.

I like nightmares too though a bit less than dreams or daydreams. It is the rebounding rate of transitory factors and no impetuous dark belief.

Storytelling seems so useless now and snapping dreams is culpable.

Well, I am awake. Slumbering.

TRITIYO CHITHHI

Mon Ami,

Konthasha kichhu maan abhimaan,

Aaj abar dilo ujaan;

Chokher jole guitar bajiye,

Sei bhalo thakar bhaan.

Purono boi-er gondho jemon,

Hridjolsay nesha temon.

Jolsaghore ami achi, tumi acho,

Aar ache jhaarlonthon bati,

E je sobi,

chomok bilati.

Aalo koi? Aandhar jeno boro,

Aabeg chhilo joto, thomke giye joro.

Kaancher boyom aalto kore khule,

Praanpakhiti daana jodi mele,

Tyajjo hobe tomar moni hote:

Ipshita tomar holam aami aaj

sei bhoyete!

~Tomar Ipshita.

DWITIYO CHITHHI

Mon Ami,
I wonder if Milton, Keats, Byron and millions of those envied minds could do a minute without their quill, their home? I call it home. It lies doggo at some niche, leering at my waltz with time and then when I bid goodbye to the perfunctory trail of the day, I can hear uproars mumbling. The oracular tympanum gets on the move. I almost give in to the twinge but I'm hugged with grace. IT is DEXTEROUS! Here I step into my Home Sweet Home- the unison of pastel moods, of ideas contradictory, ideas making allegory; to bewail mirth, rejoice grief. You make home my pen. It is at your tip that I learn to live, learn to live for, every moment every day.
" swapner neel khame,
ural aami bhorbo notun kore;
akasho kusumo choyone,
melbo pakha tomar torun naam e."

The above lines give way to an inspired rhyme.
Certain Bengali words have been emphasised with an 'O' just to make you pronounce them in that way so as you do not neglect the iambic pentameter.

PROTHOM CHITHHI

Mon Ami,
"Even if there were rains, it could never be green again."
Ekaki ami. Sokal theke sandhye, sob diner paanchmishili tamasha. Hain Tamasha! Din er sheshe raat aar raat er sheshe- jantrik sware bolte hoy- raat er sheshe sei din. Maajkhaner sondikkhongulo hothath baad diye, egiye jai. Nishpoloke, oghore golpo faandte bhule jai. Egiye jai. If I am Homeward bound, a distant home though;
Why do the roads refuse to lead me so?!
Let a wiser thought, a wiser faith dawn upon thy unleashed-
Kothay? Keno? Kisher jonno? ei prosnogulor uttor jeno, niyome bandha kathamote nastik monke, porihaash kore. Egiye jachhi, Egiye jabo.

Dear readers,

Some of my upcoming posts will be letters I have thought of writing to my Saviour ever since I have thought of thoughts. They keep me away from getting attuned to the hemlock and teach me to pick up the ' out of the ordinary' factor, now and then. That my piling up stack of gibberish has always been an extension of my soul and is no less true than the ones yet to come, comments on my spirit of driving or being driven; these letters are a bit more close to my heart. A bit more special. Just like last night's moist pillow.

Who am I?

What am I?

Has remained untold to Me:

Till in bed,

I lie unsaid,

And the Dreams are yet to be!

I ask Him as always, Can I tame the goldfish of poetic plenitude?

Family.

We were meant to be a Unit.

The unit, rather.

Signifying an integral utopian bliss.

Perfection is, supposedly, a translucent slide galloping in my mind.

I could never have a jaw with it and thus have always executed it in vain.

We were meant to be a Unit.

A faith newly recognised,

A belief remoralized,

A religion revised!

I sigh!~ the Indian citizenry, if it would've permitted my essay to thrive, could've been a splendid exordium here.

It was also meant to be a unit.

A 'was' is all that matters.

Yes, you can yawn and twitch your muscles at the slight hint of tautology but the onrushing threat of appraisals growing prim won't hinder me Boy.

Seniority descends, Hierarchy prevails.... the rule;

The Rule is somehow knit by the undesired tit-bits: shamble turned into authoritative poise.

Neglected by convention.

Implicated in ignorance.

We were meant to be a unit and a 'were' is all that matters.

THIS IS NO ROMANTIC STUFF.

Hue Ensemble

.....I wonder why did I name my blog so.........no no, the reason is known to me; it's a part of me, now that it haunts so ardently. Mopish right?!! Then what do I wonder, what do I while away my time and energy on?- Probably it is the trigger to the reasons, the reasons being the clairvoyance of tidal surges of a little understanding. And the rest is explained in a trail. I tried to mollify the imbroglio, and this is what I was gifted with-

Mirth casts its spell o'er the eastern sky,

The sun is bright.

Bright and Blithe.

An awe brightens up in my eyes;

The forage to substantiate the myth persists...

Ahoy! the Master of Miracles,

Ahoy! the Magical Angel,

Drop Thy cloak and

Make me yours today.

Let there be a sunny sky

Just for me this day!

The clouds drift apart like magnanimous confetti,

Shining festoons fail to hold them back.

Fail to add the last stroke,

To the Incomplete Whole.

I yell out and say,

Let there be a sunny sky

Just for me this day!

The bed to my back hangs in suspension,

Among things weird, blasphemous, dreamy-

My mind hovers from life, to luck, to love,

And then again to Life.

My Dead Life.

I try to squeeze out a smile

satisfactorily reflecting joy in the glass,

And may be I misconstrue that thin pair as a silent brook

effortlessly oozing sublime drops.

"I" the very letter is the cacophony of my existence

In symphony with my lonely presence.

Ahoy! My Saviour,

Ahoy! My Wizard,

Let there be Sun

Let there be Light

Let there be Life

And just You for me this day!

......Schooldays, Folklore and me.

The few people, who visit my blog quite regularly, and a fewer number among them who know me in person, often complain that my write-ups flaunt my nepotism for estranging consummate pathos. Well, if it is so: It is so. I am not a sad person. But I am suspicious. Highly suspicious. I am probably not at ease with that "overwhelming happiness"; and on turning the coin what I find is far more different and difficult to comprehend than the prior Face Value. I pen it down in haste. It is hard to be borne at heart. Your opinion is genuine my friends; in defence I would say, every individual an alien and so are the patter of instances that embolden or cripple them- make them-!!!

This time it is schooldays; Olden times.

Another New Year and how co-incidental, rather calculative, of the deepest, most covetous of relationships to domineer and establish their novel perspectives. I am appalled at this miasma of the very doubted 'Providence'. Not that I was naive enough, not to have known the 'could be' probability of the 'Worst', but somehow travesty eclipsed that lil' bit of gumption. Considering myself as one among His' choicest- the hysterical sardonicism in "His' blessed" prohibits me to use the phrase- I expected conventions to go haywire. Silly me! Espionage dear, let me learn to put it in practice as I have understood it.

To my classmates; our pygmalion classes meant so much more. I grasp better now as a third person. How strange is that! I see, while being bent upon revealing pygmalion's most clandestine epidermis, we were into peeling off our own garbs. Unknowingly, as unperturbed as time, we continued to play roles, exchange them, add to their claim over human reactions, making the drama immortal as ever. I envy Shakespeare, I do. Had those lines ' All the World's a Stage' been under my quill and not his'. Given a chance, and a hint of 'lights on' I would have been obliged to put on the mask of the parlor maid. The stoicism of the character is unbelievable. Given another chance and yet another hint of 'cameras rolling' I could have played the Blackguard very well- A Moralist in Disguise. Do I place myself on a pedestal? Now that is well-nigh impossible. This long an essay wouldn't have been scribbled then! As I would Grow and not just move ahead in life, I realise, the contribution of schooldays in making 'me', would brighten and bellitle hollow dreams( even the ones instilled, planted, and tried to be reared up by them) that bother me still. These are words I could string while looking for my Saviour in the glimpses of the day.

Unfettered Levity

My hunger to live lies thin,
Wearing with every damp day, I wake up to-
With every tick of those hands,
I keenly observe; faintly detest.
What perishes isn't a puppet at thou hands,
What remains: IS!
Words I gulp down do not weigh.
Strangled in a knot,
They stud the pendant of Black Humour.
My sublime hunger learns to laugh,
to grin in pain.
Winking at my mime fate,
Drowsily, I proceed:
Proceed in lieu of enlivening the Master.
The Puppet, as I say, Reigns.
Reigns Now, Reigns Hither.

Grim Times

I am ditched conveniently when I am in utmost need.
It is not the ghastly winds that make me shiver.
It is the absence of an embracing silhouette to shiver against.
I look for a touch of Life-
if it is at all of the essence I infer!
I am unmanifest without what I desire,
or technically, what I need.
I live in a mist.
I am the mist.
Mortals, I sermonize this
for the sake of humanity- a formal camaraderie.
If you dread the signs of existence of a world
obnoxious and mystique,
Be away from me.
I am but just another sign of the same.
As you would all love to listen,
I am tamed to toxicity.
I am not you...
You reside in me,
I put you to bed.
I am not you.